DISCLAIMER : I do not own

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has showed interest in this story so far. Hello any new comers. I hope you enjoy.


When Sherlock awoke it took him almost two fractions of a second to realize that he was in a warm, soft bed for the first time in months. It took him significantly longer to figure out why he was pressed against another man's body, and even longer to try and decipher just who that body was. His head was throbbing painfully and everything seemed far too bright, which was probably the reason his brain was working to its full capacity. He supposed he had nothing but the drugs to blame for that. His was body was aching for its next fix of cocaine. Once he had pieced things together however he felt a trickle of guilt stir in his stomach. It wasn't the man who he wanted to wake up beside and he almost felt like he had just committed an act of betrayal to both himself and the man who he was longing after.

He frowned as a soft kiss was placed on his neck by the man laid out beside him. "If you don't mind, Lestrade. I'd quite appreciate it if you'd stop that at once."

The older man's face instantly fell, a clear amount of pain slowly dripping across his features. A moment later and the look of pain was replaced by a look of pure shock. "Wait…you're alive? You're not just …an illusion?"

Sherlock's frown deepened and he went to say something but found himself interrupted by a sharp, familiar voice. "It would appear so."

Sherlock shifted in the bed and let his eyes flicker to the owner of the voice. "Hello, big brother." He said, his mouth suddenly painfully dry. There standing at the bottom of the bed, looking as pristine and composed as ever, was Mycroft. Though his straight posture and facial expression gave the impression that he felt nothing, Sherlock knew otherwise.

He knew his brother better than anyone in the world. He could note the tension coming off of Mycroft in giant waves. It was practically nauseating. The tight smile his brother was possessing told him that his he was feeling bothered, angry, maybe even a little worried. Sherlock noted how distressed and anxious Lestrade seemed to be and sighed loudly. It was plain as day ; Sherlock had just slept with his brother's lover. He'd been far too high to note it or if he had he hadn't taken much notice of it seeing as the room stank of stale sex and sweat.

Mycroft cocked his head, observing Sherlock in an almost cat like manner. "I always had my suspicions…" The Elder Holmes then did something that the younger couldn't have possibly predicted. He strode to the bed and pulled Sherlock into a big brotherly hug. The hug didn't last long but it was a large step for either brother to have taken, especially since Sherlock hugged Mycroft back. The gesture was a shock to both of their systems and so it was hardly surprising that when they pulled back they reverted into their old selves.

Mycroft went back into being an ice man, glaring at Lestrade with piercing eyes that made the man shrink back into the covers. Sherlock simply blinked, his throbbing headache doubling in intensity as he tried to process all that was happening.

"I think you should leave, Gregory." From Mycroft's tone of voice that wasn't a suggestion it was a cold and point blank order. Sherlock watched as Lestrade gathered up his clothes and scarpered from the room like a frightened animal. That just left him and his brother alone, having an itense stare off with each other. "Have you any idea of how much trouble you've caused?" The Elder Holmes sniffed and readjusted one of his cuffs out of habit.

Sherlock didn't even bother thinking of a response. He knew exactly how much trouble he'd caused. He'd been forced to watch as those he knew were one by one destroyed by his fake suicide.

"Well?" Mycroft asked, raising a stern eyebrow. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders slightly. The searing pain in his head was unbearable now. The only thing he was aware of was the pounding in his head and the way the room was beginning to spin despite the fact the only thing he was doing was lying in bed. He quickly found himself wretching all over the soft sheets, the very little content in his stomach resurfacing. His brother looked quite appalled at this and Sherlock would have smirked victoriously if it had not been for his body convulsing with each strained wretch.

"Those were Egyptian sheets. Pure silk." Mycroft stated, his lips tightening and a frown pulling at his brow. Sherlock groaned in response and his older brother sighed and rolled his eyes. "You look awful."

Sherlock groaned again as his stomach gave the last of its contents and he sank back into the mattress. "Thank you, dearest brother, for pointing out the blatantly obvious."

Mycroft shuffled closer to Sherlock, wrinkling his nose at the smell wafting off of his brother. "I see you've taken a dangerous path once more." He said as he reached out to one of Sherlock's arms, his fingertips floating gracefully over the needle marks and the other scars that told of all the hardships he had been through.

Sherlock flinched away, dragging both of his arms to his chest protectively. "So has your lover it would seem!"

That seemed to hit a nerve as for the briefest moment the Elder Holmes face broke into something akin to despair. "I will talk to Gregory later." He said softly. If those words had come from anyone else then Sherlock would have most certainly put them down as being fond. But this was his brother. Mycroft Holmes didn't do fond. Though it would seem perhaps he did. He'd dropped to his knees and was holding Sherlock's head in his hands with a gentle tenderness. The kindness in his brothers eyes made him shiver. It scared him when people cared. It was like a cold fear gripping at his heart, threatening to shatter it, because if people cared about him then they'd only get hurt. Though Sherlock detested his brother and everything he stood for he never wanted to see him hurt.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked. He'd expected his brother to say a lot of things but those two words were the rarest things he'd ever heard Mycroft say. "W- w-what?" He stammered, swallowing thickly around a lump of emotion rising in his throat. He tried to fight the urge to cry because he didn't want to appear weak. Holmes men did not shed tears.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft repeated in a soft voice. "I'm sorry that I betrayed you, sorry that you felt like you couldn't come to me when you found yourself in this –difficult situation, but most of all I'm sorry that you had to give up John. I know how much the good doctor meant to you."

Sherlock's chest tightened and those tears grew more insistent. He wasn't going to cry in front of his brother though. He wasn't prepared to show him just how weak he'd gotten in the past few years, and to show that his usual distance with his emotions was no longer there. He was now as emotional as a teenage girl. Stupid, pointless, little things tended to stir such painful feelings within him that he wanted nothing more than to rip his beating heart from its cage so that he could once more revert back into a cold, uncaring machine.

His brother's face flickered from a heavy sadness into its usual composed mask, though the pity that swirled in his eyes remained. "I'll clean you up and leave you be for a while. But let this be known that I'm not allowing you to leave this building till you are clean and in good health." His brother held up a hand to Sherlock as he went to say something. "I will ensure that Gregory gets some help too. Whatever – happened last night – it's forgotten. I'm just so very glad he brought you home to me."

Sherlock grunted in reply and nodded, a little bit of pressure loosening within his chest. He watched in fascination as Mycroft himself began to strip the soiled sheets and his clothes. He'd expected his brother to get his staff to do this but instead he was treated like Mycroft had treated him when he'd been a young boy. Each touch was gentle and caring and Sherlock wanted nothing more to be a child again because then he'd have an excuse to curl up on his brother's lap and sob without any questions asked. And really that's all he wanted to do right now and it was frustrating because he wasn't prepared to sink to such a low level and ask his brother to stay with him. Luckily he found that he didn't have to. Once Mycroft had placed him in some clean albeit too big pyjamas he looked at him with soft eyes, a sort of understanding twinkling in his eyes, and then a surprisingly gentle smile tugged at his lips. Then silently, because there was really no need for words right now, he crawled beneath the covers and pulled Sherlock's scrawny body onto his lap, his arms wrapping protectively around him.

Sherlock couldn't find the strength to hold in his tears anymore. It was almost instinctive to begin crying whilst his brother was rocking him in his arms like a small toddler. It wasn't the silent sort of crying; that would have probably been a whole lot less embarrassing for both men. Instead it was the sort of crying that turns into gigantic sobs that stick in your throat as loud hiccups minutes after they've died down. His sobs were loud and strangled, and the more he sobbed the more his emotional walls crumbled, and in a vicious circle the more walls that crumbled the more sobs that formed.

His brother was hushing him all the while, rocking him, holding him tightly. Mycroft's warmth held some comfort for Sherlock and soon the soothing words his brother was whispering down his ear began to calm him. When he finally looked up at his brother he noticed the silent tears slipping down the Elder Holmes face. It would seem that both men were rather emotionally unstable right now but somehow that didn't matter, all that mattered was that Sherlock was home, and for the first time in years Sherlock and Mycroft were no longer arch enemies, they were brothers.

"Welcome home, little brother."


I hope that I didn't make the Holmes boys a little too soppy, but I do love Holmes boys feels so sorry if I indulged a little too much there.

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